


Form

by INMH



Series: The Fruits of Mercy [1]
Category: The Order: 1886
Genre: (that he knows of anyway), Lust, M/M, Pre-Canon, Uniform Kink, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:13:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26246962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: Alastair can’t lie, he’s seriously entertained the idea of propositioning Grayson.
Relationships: Alastair D'Argyll/Grayson
Series: The Fruits of Mercy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/785652
Kudos: 12





	Form

**[-The Nineteenth of February, 1850-]**  
  
Grayson looks good uniform.  
  
Really, Alastair thinks that there’s very little a man of Grayson’s features would look bad in. But the new uniforms bestowed upon Her Majesty’s Knights- the formal uniform for meetings and the one to be worn in the field- in particular made Grayson look…  
  
…Well, they flattered him.  
  
“Always odd, isn’t it,” Grayson mumbles as he stretches his arms, tests the way the fabric rests and pulls on him. Anything that’s too tight or too loose can and will be adjusted, partly for propriety’s sake and partly to ensure comfort. “Changing the uniforms after so many years of having the same one?”  
  
Alastair doesn’t answer immediately, mostly because he’s a little too busy staring at the neat lines of Grayson’s body in the dark gray fabric. “Ah- yes, I suppose it is. But I suppose it would be odder for us to still be dressing as though we’re still living under Queen Anne, wouldn’t it?”  
  
“God’s _Blood_.” Grayson wrinkles his nose, rolls his eyes. “If there’s anything I’d like to forget, it’s the _wigs_ everyone used to wear. You remember them, don’t you?”  
  
“How could I not? I still have nightmares about those lice-infested monstrosities and occasionally thank God that we were never required to wear them. May that particular trend never rise from its deep and bloody grave.”  
  
Grayson chuckles, and then turns back to the mirror.  
  
Alastair glances around the fitting room. There are other Knights trying on their uniforms and chattering amongst themselves as they do, and so Alastair is content to continue to eye up Grayson without notice.  
  
It’s the formal, official, dress-uniform that he has on now. It’s not meant for combat, but it doesn’t prohibit it either: There’s a metal collar, a red and gold sash across the chest, a golden braid wraps around his left shoulder. Grayson is a good-looking man in general, but the formal uniform makes him look regal.  
_  
Though I’d rather see him take it off,_ Alastair thinks, because there’s no harm in admitting to himself that if Grayson was so inclined that he would rut against him until he couldn’t anymore. There’s a shamelessness to it, but oh well: So long as he keeps it in his head, no one will ever know that Alastair would like to nail Grayson (amongst a few other men) to the nearest hard surface if given the okay.   
  
The desire for Grayson in particular rears its head most often because- naturally- they’re fellow Knights, and Grayson is the most accessible. Unfortunately, it’s also this accessibility that presents a danger: If Grayson were to react badly to a proposition (Alastair would like to think he wouldn’t, but one can never know) then it could knock the supports out from the careful, cultivated image Alastair has built up over the last nearly two-hundred fifty years.  
  
No, better to pick his trysts more cautiously.  
  
“How do I look?” Grayson has turned to Alastair and spread his arms to give him a good view of the uniform overall.  
_  
Fuckable,_ Alastair thinks.  
  
“Dignified,” is what he says out loud with a nod. “It would be appropriate for a meeting with the Queen, I think.”  
  
“Huh.” Grayson gives a little shrug. “Guess it’s fine, then.”  
  
“No adjustments needed?”  
  
“No, it seems to fit just fine.”  
  
“Have you tried the other one yet?”  
  
“No, suppose I should before I sign off on them.” Grayson goes to remove the uniform, but then frowns as he tries to figure out where to start. It’s the problem with all new uniforms, especially the official ones: There tends to be so much decoration to it that one struggles to assemble and disassemble it properly for the first few weeks.  
  
“Here, let me.”  
_  
Shameless,_ Alastair accuses himself as he steps up to Grayson and helps him take the uniform off, helps him strip down to his undershirt and trousers so he can change into the combat uniform. Alastair’s gaze lingers when Grayson’s back is turned, and he once again feels a charge of disappointment that he will likely never know the body beneath it a little better, a little more intimately.  
  
But there’s nothing to stop Alastair from admiring the view for now.  
  
-End


End file.
